Knives at Dawn (34 page)

W
HEN
T
EAM
USA F
INALLY
connected, they discovered that Gavin Kaysen had checked into the hotel. Having slept on his overnight flight, he came bounding down the stairs in a red argyle sweater and a freshly shorn head of hair. En route to the Boulud family farm, Kaysen—there to assist in any way he could over the coming week—shared the news that restaurant Daniel, the cornerstone of Boulud's restaurant empire back in the States, was set to be re-reviewed in the coming Wednesday's
New York Times
. As if there weren't enough going on in the life of Team USA, its chairman's precious four-star rating was on the line.

As a morning drizzle came and went, the team arrived at L'Abbaye, Paul Bocuse's catering space about three miles outside Lyon, a huge hall that accommodates more than five hundred people. The structure is rich with history: it had belonged to his great-grandparents as far back as 1765, was sold, and then reclaimed by Bocuse himself in 1966. It is also festively decorated with the chef's collection of ancient fairground organs, most spectacularly in its main dining room, La Salle du Grand Limonaire, with the “Gaudin,” a massive, carnival-like installation of automated musician figurines that come to life when activated. The Gaudin dates back to 1900 and Bocuse had it restored over the course of four years after purchasing
the building. In its center today stands a figurine that was
not
part of the original composition: a miniature Bocuse, wielding a conductor's wand—the ultimate illustration of his showmanship.

The team was greeted by Vincent Le Roux, a vibrant and effortlessly charming manager who had spent time working with Jérôme Bocuse at Les Chefs de France in Epcot and so—invaluably—spoke perfect English. At the instruction of Monsieur Paul himself, Le Roux was at the service of the American contingent for the length of their time in Lyon, “twenty-four hours a day,” if necessary.

“You see, the American flag, for you,” said Le Roux, who seemed to walk on air as he glided by to open the door for them. The team turned to see the Star-Spangled Banner aloft on a flagpole along the roadside, its red, white, and blue snapping against the gray sky. Collectively, the group sighed with humility, buying Le Roux's friendly fib. He didn't have the heart to tell him that the flag, like the one in front of Restaurant Paul Bocuse, was in fact not for them, but a tribute to the veterans and casualties of World War II.

For a staging area, Team USA couldn't have done much better than L'Abbaye, which had an enormous kitchen centered around an island of burners and flattops, with walk-in refrigerators and freezers located just beyond, and plenty of room for storage. Best of all, because it was a catering facility, nobody was working on nonevent days, so on Saturday, the team could go about their business without feeling they were getting in the way of fellow cooks.

After touring the facility, the team filed back into the SUV and followed Le Roux down the road to Restaurant Paul Bocuse, a magnificent structure of red and green that towers over its surroundings. The team got out of their vehicles and looked up to see that over the parking lot, painted on the wall of the building, in classic Lyonnaise mural style, was a portrait of Bocuse himself, pushing open a shuttered window to welcome guests.

The team climbed the stone steps that curved up from the parking lot to the restaurant. Before the glass doors of the main entrance was a walk-way,
lined with the names of all past Bocuse d'Or medalists arranged on rectangular plaques set right into the ground. Hollywood has the Walk of Fame; Lyon has this. At the near end of the display were a few rows of blank plaques: the one right under 2007 would be replaced soon enough, with the names of the chefs who would triumph just nine days later.

The team was escorted into the restaurant and seated in Salon Fernand Point, one of the main dining rooms, essentially a solarium and also a shrine to the legendary chef for whom Bocuse himself had apprenticed as a young cook, with small, framed photographs of Point decorating the walls. In what would become a running theme of their time in Lyon, double espressos were ordered and
mignardises
(small, sweet treats served with coffee) were presented on tiered silver stands.

The purpose of the visit was to see to the needs of the team, especially the procurement of ingredients for Saturday's practice. To that end, they were joined by the restaurant's chef, Christian Bouvarel, who could not have been more archetypal, with sculpted jet-black hair and mustache, trim build, impeccably starched whites, and the exquisitely erect posture and comportment of a military man, outwardly humorless, with perfect attention to his given mission. He was also a lifer: he had apprenticed for Bocuse at age fourteen, worked elsewhere for a time, and the n returned. That was in 1974.

Before they began going over Hollingsworth's list, Bouvarel had a sidebar with Henin, a serious-seeming debate. Henin reported the chef's thoughts to the team:

“He said that, technically, when they do a competition, one week before the competition they stop everything, they don't mess with anything anymore. Remember what I said, when you're [training] for a marathon, one week before you stop running so that by the time you get to the marathon race, your body wants it so bad.… He said one week before if you're not ready, no matter what you do, you won't get any more ready.”

Put another way, the chef was actually
discouraging the team from having their practice in Lyon
.

Hollingsworth was unflappable. “Let him know that we need to try their products because we can't get them in America,” he said. “Their fish or their meats.”

Henin conferred with Bouvarel. “The American meat is younger, it's tender, but it's not mature. It doesn't have the full flavor,” he said, via Henin. “The French, or the European meat, is a little bit older, it's more mature, it has more character, more flavor, more taste. It might not be quite as
tender
as the younger one. It's true, he agrees. You are correct. There is a difference in the product. There is no question about it.”

With that, Hollingsworth launched into his list, starting with the most basic ingredient he could think of.

“Canola oil. Do you guys have that?”

“
Qu'est-ce que c'est
, ‘CA-NO-LAH?' ” said Bouvarel. It means, “What is that, canola?” But the chef drew out the pronunciation of
canola
with such disdain that it sounded more like,
Who is this guy, Canola, and who the hell does he think he is?

Thrown for a loop, Hollingsworth repeated himself: “Canola oil?” No response. “Rapeseed oil?”

Bouvarel squinted and shook his head slowly from side to side. Never heard of it.

“Neutral?” said Hollingsworth. It didn't have to be canola oil, any neutral oil would suffice.

“Vegetable oil?” said Guest.

Henin thought that might work. “
Huile végétale
?” he said.

Bouvarel was a statue of incomprehension.

“Corn oil?” offered Le Roux.

Bouvarel perked up. “
Maïs
?
L'huile de maïs
?”

Close enough. Hollingsworth wanted it. No problem.

Whew.

“Five pounds of butter,” to make clarified butter. Piece of cake. Now they were rolling. He kept going.

“Cream?”

Kaysen, who had been through this kind of thing two years earlier, whispered in Hollingsworth's ear. “Be sure you specify the percentage you want on the cream.”

“Percentage?” asked Hollingsworth.

The well-traveled Dr. John Guest interjected: “It's different cream here.”

“Heavy cream,” said Adina Guest.

“
Very
,
very
heavy cream,” said the good doctor, lest Hollingsworth not understand that the cream was heavy.

Kaysen knew what Hollingsworth wanted, so he euthanized this portion of the conversation before it got out of hand: “
La double est bonne
,” he said.

“Their double cream is like heavy cream,” he told Hollingsworth.

It was fast becoming apparent that it wasn't just the proteins; the team also required a crash course in the significant differences between even the most common ingredients in France and what they were used to back home.

“Two liters of crème fraîche,” said Hollingsworth, referring to the slightly soured cream he needed for various preparations.

“
Crème fraîche
?” said Bouvarel. Here they went again.

“They have crème fraîche,” said Kaysen, baffled by the reply.

“They don't call it crème fraîche?” said Hollingsworth disbelievingly. The chef must have misheard. “Crème fraîche!”

Henin turned to Le Roux, who had worked in both the Orlando and Lyon. “
Crème fraîche en français
?” he asked. How do you say it in French?

“It
is
already a French word,” laughed Le Roux, which brought the house down. Everybody was trying their best; it was just a matter of identifying exactly which of the myriad French options the Americans meant when they said
crème fraîche
.

In the intervening minutes, one of Bouvarel's cooks had brought a liter carton of cream out from the kitchen to show it to Hollingsworth.

“Be careful,” said Henin. “This one is ultrapasteurized, meaning you
don't have to refrigerate it, meaning it may react differently than the one that we use. You'll have to play with it.”

“Two liters of milk,” said Hollingsworth.

This was surprisingly easy.

“Two liters of nonfat milk? Do you have nonfat milk?”

“Yes,” said Le Roux.

“Do you have microgreens? Like
petite
…”

Henin did his best here: “
Miniature pour les feuilles de salade
?”

“What type of greens?” said Henin.

“
Petit céleri
?” said Bouvarel.

“No, micro,” said Henin. “
C'est la germination
.”

“
De la root ou de la branche
?

“Do you want the celery stalk, or the leaves?” translated Henin.

“No,” said Kaysen, picking up on a miscommunication. “Basically he's saying there's two different kinds of microgreens. One comes from the stalk and one comes from the root.”

“One each,” said Hollingsworth, hedging his bets, then moved on. “Two navel oranges,” he said.

“No problem,” said Le Roux.

“Truffles? Has to be large.” He made a circle with his fingers. “Like this.”

This, too, was doable.

Hollingsworth ran through a list of other necessities: Parchment, foil, plastic wrap. All were manageable. Puff pastry they could have, but it would come in a five-pound block that would need to be sheeted. Brioche was also available, but would be enormous, the size of two Pullman loaves, but better too big than too small. He'd take it.

“Broccolini?”

Henin started trying to explain this, but there was no point. Technically, broccolini is an engineered hybrid between broccoli and Chinese broccoli, but even seasoned culinarians misidentify it as either baby broccoli or broccoli rabe.

“I think we can ask Daniel to bring some,” he said.

“Avocado.”

“
Oui
.”

“Tarragon?” said Hollingsworth.

“
Estragon
?” translated Henin.

Bouvarel nodded.

After they got through the rest of the produce, Hollingsworth asked if they had the specs for the proteins that would be used in the competition. The team still had not been directed to that essential Web site page, and Hollingsworth didn't want any surprises. Bouvarel thought that the côte de bouef came from the meatier end of the steer, near the shoulder, but wasn't really sure of any details. So Henin and Hollingsworth ordered what they thought made the most sense: scallops in the shells so he could practice shucking, 16/20 shrimp (meaning sixteen to twenty per pound), an average size, and so on.

Henin also asked Bouvarel if his crew could procure a few bricks for the team. The solution they had hit on to keep their platter warm was to heat foil-wrapped bricks in the oven, then use the bricks to heat the metal. This, too, would be done.

After almost ninety minutes, the team was synced up with their hosts. The food they required would be procured. Now all they had to do was get it all to come out the way it did back at
their
Bocuse House, back in Yountville.

T
WO MONUMENTAL EVENTS WERE
to take place on January 20, 2009: Barack Obama was scheduled to be sworn in as President of the United States at twelve noon Eastern Standard Time, and eight to ten hours later, the anticipated re-review of Daniel would be up on the
New York Times
Web site.

Team USA was transitioning from acclimation mode to preparation mode: they visited the Boulud farm again to sort through a few newly arrived
FedEx boxes as well as some boxes Kaysen had left in France two years earlier (Michel Bouit had carted them there during a trip to Lyon in December), picking out what they'd want to transfer to L'Abbaye. They loaded up the van and drove to the catering hall, where they were met by Chef Serge Cotin, an affable, ruddy-cheeked, middle-aged man with whom Daniel Boulud had worked when they were teenagers, who helped them to stash their things in an out-of-the-way upstairs room until their practice on Saturday.

Needing to print some directions off the Internet, the team was directed up the road to Restaurant Paul Bocuse. What began as a quick errand turned into a visit with royalty as Chef Bocuse invited Hollingsworth, Guest, and Henin to join him for a coffee. Chef Bocuse, out of his whites and clad in a long-sleeved black cashmere sweater and dark slacks, had the air of a benevolent don about him, reinforced by the floor manager stationed to the side of the table functioning as an attendant, lest he or his guests require anything.